Look to Me, Visit Me
by GodzillasCaptor
Summary: Light Johnlock. Although there are many times that John wanted to return home in the past six months, he couldn't bear it. He didn't want to go back to the place where he lingered. Post Reichenbach Fall, six months afterwards. (Yes, I have seen season three. No spoilers as far as I know. Rated T to be safe.)


John took up travelling after it happened. Not by any willing decision of his, nor by any suggestion of a friend. He just couldn't stay in the same place that he... Sherlock... had died. He traveled often, though he only took the cheapest planes he could find. It wasn't anything that he really wanted to do- but he did it anyways. He took up the figure he had before Sherlock came into his life; a traumatized doctor back from war with a bad leg and nervous tremors.

He had been gone from 221B for about six months now, and it almost made him sink to his knees on the spot when he saw it again.

He was returning from Denmark, having enjoyed his stay there and yearning to go back, but he just had to see his old home again. He knocked gently on the door, not using the key so not to completely shock Mrs. Hudson. The door creaked open and her creased face poked out, her gentle eyes widening for a moment before she rushed over to envelope him in an embrace.

"Hello! Come in, come in! It's pouring out here, oh! Why don't you have an umbrella!?" She fussed, ushering him inside. Watson gave a meek smile, shaking his head and slowly walking up the stairs. It felt too soon.

"It's good to see you, Mrs. Hudson." He said casually, eyes trailing over the untouched room. The place felt so vivid, so familiar, it seemed like Sherlock would walk out of the kitchen at any moment with his violin in hand or maybe contemplating a theory for something.

But... he didn't.

The pang was back, that longing and unsettling ache that hung over the room as Mrs. Hudson left him a moment.

Dropping his cane, John slowly walked around the room. He gently trailed his fingers over the scattered books, the still vials, and... and Sherlock's violin. His psychosomatic problem gone, his tremors forgotten, his eyes; reliving. Everything. Everything, _everything,_ **everything.**

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll only be here for a few days. Is the bedroom upstairs still open?" He asked loudly, not noticing that she was right in the doorway.

"It's always open up there, you and I both know." She said, holding out a tray of tea. "Please, sit down and relax. I'm thankful that you still pay rent, I was afraid you would forget when you first left us- er..." She paused. "Me."

"Someone like me, forget someone like you, AND forget to pay rent? I'm sharper than you think." He replied with a small smile. Oh gods, the memories that welled up. "Besides, I wouldn't let someone else take this place for my life."

"He still lingers, you know." She said softly. "He's in the books, he's in the walls," she pointed to the bullet-filled wall with a grin, "he's in the kitchen; storing some fingers, he's everywhere."

"We can only wish." He whispered. "Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll go retire."

He hadn't touched her tea, he hadn't glanced at her crumpets, he hadn't even thanked her for her courtesy.

"Oh... Well, good day then."

"One can only try."

With that, he made his way up the stairs and into his old bedroom.

Shutting the door lightly, he slid down it's frame and landed heavily. He put his head into his hands, shoulders shaking and eyes watering as he waited for it. He could practically feel the mistake rising up onto him. He wanted to call out for Sherlock, to find him walking around- hell, he could be in a bed sheet for all he cared!

"Sherlock, you're an asshole." Watson muttered darkly. He had gone through all of these emotions before- anger, hatred, sadness, anxiety. It wasn't new. It wasn't fun. He hated himself, he hated Sherlock, for it.

Getting to his feet, he trudged over to his bed and collapsed into it. He covered himself with blankets and snuggled into the pillow, gaining unconsciousness in only moments.

* * *

It was the thumping that woke him. That hardly audible, but still faint, _thump, thump, thump._

It almost jarred him awake. He managed not to gasp, and managed to pretend that he hadn't just been dreaming about that bloody awful day of Sherlock's suicide. He crept out of bed, sliding slowly across the room and gently opening the door. Gliding easily down the stairs, he peered into the room that the noises came from.

He slid forward and carefully - silently - picked his cane up from where he had forgotten it. Brandishing it fearlessly, he stepped forward and stared into the dark room.

Was that a shadow moving? No, curtains stirring.

_Just why is the window open?_

"Who's there?" John called, an edge in his voice. "Come out now!"

Could it be Mrs. Hudson? Doubtful, she didn't strike him as a night owl.

"Come out now damn it! Or would you like me to get the police involved?"

"Now, now, that's no way to treat a friend." A voice finally responding. John flinched. That voice. That voice was... his voice.

"Who are you?" He asked, frowning and staring at the source of the noise- a small shadow near the corner of the room. Two eyes shone from it.

"Come on, John. Use you're brain, I know it's not as highly functioned as mine but by the gods just _try_."

He was frozen, he couldn't believe it. His voice, his figure, his two grey-green eyes. It was all there, it was all him. John dropped his cane, his hands shaking. No, his whole body was shaking. He could barely croak out the word that begged to be released.

"Sh-Sherlock...?"

The tall man unfolded himself from his sitting position, giving John only a glance.

"Now, before you go off on how I should have told you I was still alive. You don't have a phone, and you are awfully ignorant of the payphones." John paused, he had grown weary of any cellular device the past few months, they all seemed to spontaneously ring whenever he came around. "I don't know where your phone is or if you turned it off permanently but every time I had tried to text you it gave me an out of service code. I know this is rather sudden and you may want to sit down- John...!"

John swayed. This couldn't be real. All of those nights listening to the phone in his hotel room ring until he unplugged it. All of those nights when he could only lay awake while staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. He had become recluse, he had become independent from everyone he knew. It just wasn't fair, now that his friend was back. He had tried to stay out of Sherlock's family for the longest time, thinking that the phone calls were only Mycroft. He desperately ripped the phone plug out of the wall for each hotel he stayed in.

He leaned heavily against his friend before being lowered into a chair.

"John. Look at me. LOOK AT ME. I'm still here, I'm alive. Everything is okay."

"NO! NO IT'S NOT OKAY!" John shouted. "YOU JUMPED OFF OF A BUILDING RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG THAT SCARRED ME, HOW MANY NIGHTS I LAY AWAKE WITH NO ONE BUT YOU ON MY MIND."

Concern and guilt flickered in Sherlock's eyes, and John was positively shaking in anger, sadness and fear.

"John, what did you do?"

His voice was deadly, cold. John noticed that Sherlock's hands were also shaking, and his eyes were already fixed on Watson's face. It had been a bad habit, a huge mistake in his years, his attachment only made it worse. The fear had given him a thrill then- now it only served him as punishment. He punished himself for being unable to save his best- one of his few, friends. The dark circles under his eyes were dull purple, bruise color, he would force himself to stay awake. To remember.

"Let me see." He commanded. "Let me look."

"You don't like what you see, it won't be any better up close." John warned, teeth clenched.

He motioned for John to do it anyways, and, with now steady hands, John obliged. He leaned forward on the chair he had collapsed into, pushing his face into the dim light and motioning for Sherlock to turn the lamp-light on. The light burned his eyes briefly, but he could already see his friend's disappointed face- darkening. His eyes were clear as day though, and John shivered.

"You haven't been sleeping well, obviously. Why though? I took away everyone who could possibly cause you pain." Sherlock shook his head. It was a simple statement, but still hit home for John. He was right.

"It's been here for a while, I am surprised that you did not notice it when you first met me. Sort of like your nicotine patches- it's hard to get away from it. All the way through my teens. It stopped for awhile before, well, before you went away." John wasn't ashamed of them as much as he would've thought to be. It was his punishment. His only way to force himself to think of his friend- whether in dark or bright light, the pain never went away. Even now, with his friend staring him directly in the eyes, he could still feel his fatigue and restless nights in exotic places.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"You know why. I never made it noticeable while I was living with you, I really did try. Now you know now, I guess. I am very surprised you hadn't been able to figure it out. My nightmares keeping me awake some nights, other nights I don't sleep at all. It's become more frequent over the past few weeks. I wish I could stop, I can't. I'm not sorry though. It's my reward."

"John. Why?"

"It's a punishment."

"For."

"You."

That shocked the detective, he blinked a few times before replying with a soft voice. "Me?"

"You."

The other began to pace, and John watched him with a steely gaze. He was going to let Sherlock think this one out, just like back then; before any of this happened.

"You haven't been getting much sleep, you're actually quite exhausted. You've been travelling for a long time- hence why I haven't made myself known earlier than this. Your bag indicates that you have recently been in Denmark and despite the calming atmosphere- you wanted to return here. You have stress lines decorating your face- worrying about something or another, probably worrying about your dissipating grief over me. Sleep deprivation indicates nightmares, more than likely about me- so those must be your punishment for getting a good nights sleep without me haunting your dreams. I'm assuming it only becomes more frequent because my memory was fading."

"Spot on as always."

He only got a faint but brief smile in return.

"John. You're frowning and your eyebrow is raised. You have a question."

"Moriarty?"

"Dead."

"Everything you said?"

Hesitation, that tired look of defeat flickering over Sherlock's face. "False."

"You lied."

"Yes."

"You never lie."

John said these words blandly, letting them echo for a moment in the dimly lit room.

"... I had to."

"NO! No you didn't!" John fumed, glaring daggers. "You could have not faked your suicide and we could still be solving crimes and being regular detectives!"

"No I couldn't." Sherlock said in a dark voice. "If I did not fake my death, you would be dead. You, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, you all would be laying in a puddle of your own brain matter. I faked my death to protect all of you. One death is nothing compared to three. Besides..." He trailed off, excitement in his eyes. "It gave me a thrill that was like no other."

Without warning, John leaped to his feet and socked Sherlock in the jaw.

"DO YOU EVEN- HAVE YOU CONSIDERED THE MENTAL CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR ACTIONS?! I CAN'T LOOK AT PEOPLE IN THE EYES, I CAN'T CONTROL MY P.T.S.D. AS WELL AS I USED TO. DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I HAVE WALLOWED IN GRIEF OVER YOU AND YOU- YOU GOT A THRILL OUT OF FAKING SUICIDE."

The idiot had the decency to look ashamed for a moment, but only a moment.

"I do know, John. I do know. Trust me, if I didn't know then I would not be here right now, I would be on the streets waiting for my next case, wishing that I had someone to talk aloud to the whole time."

"You have your skull." John spat.

"Attracts too much attention, as I said the first time I spoke of him."

Sherlock was rubbing his jaw, slipping his hand back and forth over the red flesh. John didn't regret his action, he didn't regret anything he had been saying. The doctor grimaced and walked into the kitchen, slamming his fist on the wall and letting his shoulders shake with anger and anxiety.

"No one remembers me, John. They've all moved on. They couldn't solve any cases brought to them because I solved them. They all left the police investigation agency. Most of them went to America, the only other few are now travelers, wanderers, even unemployed, not unlike you. They don't visit here now, because they know that without me, they don't stand a chance."

"Even Anderson?"

"Even Anderson. He specifically moved to Germany, working as a newscaster now."

John didn't have to turn and look to see the smirk in his voice. It was no secret that Sherlock held a very special kind of hate for the other man. The doctor shook his head slowly.

"And now what? The public hasn't forgotten."

"That is only because of your blog- which you have since that day abandoned; and it will remain that way. We will no longer be public. If someone recognizes us- kudos to them, we will continue the case and try to abandon any fan that awaits us."

"How in the world do you think that is going to work out- you were famous at one point!" Sherlock didn't look particularly interested in that observation, instead picking up his violin and plucking at one string. "Sherlock?"

"It's perfect. If we keep under the radar, which I prefer to fame anyways, no one will suspect the two males who live at 221B."

He plucked another string, looking distant.

"Does Mrs. Hudson know you're alive?" John suddenly asked, not realizing until then that she could still be in the dark.

"Oh yes, I dropped in on her as soon as you retired. She was a bit angry at me as well, but I still don't have to pay full rent."

John paused another moment, listening to Sherlock pluck the strings. "How?"

"That is a secret that I am not willing to share at the moment." Sherlock answered with a thoughtful hum. "Did you meet any interesting people while traveling? Perhaps get a new love interest? Is airplane food really as awful as some people say?"

"I saw some interesting people- too scared to approach them though. I met a pretty girl at the bar too, went home- only to have my needs let down as she only wanted to talk about feelings. I stayed but it was hardly an one-night stand. I wouldn't know I only take short flights." John sighed heavily. "What does this have to do with you just randomly appearing?"

"Nothing, I was simply curious." Was the chipper reply, but it sounded a bit false.

"Is there something wrong, Sherlock?" John inquired, turning around to finally face him. He was surprised to find the taller man frowning at the floor with what looked like jealousy.

"No, nothing." The short response made him uneasy, it seemed almost forced from Sherlock's normal tone. "Really, I should be the one asking you that."

"What do you mean?"

"You're anxious and doubtful of yourself. What for; I don't know, but I'm thinking that it has something to do with the girl from the bar."

"Just how can you get that- the anxious part I know, but doubtful? Where is that?" John demanded, clenching his fists.

"Lowered eyes, slumping ever-so-slight, tilt in your head. You're shaking and can't find a proper place to stay at for over five minutes... must I go on?" Sherlock asked in a bored voice. "Honestly, you are practically presenting yourself to be less than confident."

John fidgeted for a moment, was it really that obvious?

"D-do you have a theory as to why I am doubtful?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me, please. At least do me that much."

"You are doubting... your sentiments?"

Ashamed, John turned his head and nodded. He carefully avoided Sherlock's eyes as he paced the room. As he paced, he kept his distance a safe three feet away from Sherlock, he didn't want the other man to jump to conclusions- even if they would be correct.

"If I may ask-" Sherlock started, interrupting his thoughts, "- what and-or who made you doubt yourself?"

"The girl- when we got to her place she started talking about men. I started agreeing- subconsciously anyways, I didn't verbally say anything but I was indeed agreeing. When she started talking about other men she tried to date, I found myself sympathizing with her- again, subconsciously, even though I've never formally been in a relationship other than friendship with a man."

John was breathless, it was a simple lie- one that Sherlock would probably call him out on. He didn't though, instead just nodding and humming, as if to signal that he was listening.

"So you like men now? Any particular one person?" The other suddenly said, plucking his string and nodding coolly.

"..."

"Well?" He asked, one dark eyebrow raised.

"Remember that time with Sarah, when we went to the circus and found out about the black market in China? Go ahead a bit before that. Remember when I was telling you about my date, you said 'That's what I was suggesting.', after I told you what a date was."

"Yes, yes, I remember. What about it?" The taller man was getting impatient.

"I think... Well, I think I might have started to like you after that."

Again, with the shocked face. Honestly, what was he expecting? John knew neither of them were exactly verbal, but honestly.

Still pacing, John stopped for a moment, waiting for the rejection. He knew he had it coming.

"Oh... alright then."

Was that it?

WAS THAT BLOODY IT?!

Keeping his face under control, John just turned steely eyes towards the man who had managed to make him straight as a curly straw.

"Is that it?" He asked in a cold voice. "No rejection, no acceptance, just 'alright then'?"

"John, you and I both know that what I said is neither rejection nor acceptance- it is acknowledgment. You have not given me time to mull over this and give a proper response. I have said it once, and I suppose that I will have to say it again; I believe myself to be married to my job. Perhaps I didn't say it in those exact words, but you do understand. It is hard to do your job and keep a relationship steady all at once- just look at all of the girls who left you because of what you did- what you were doing."

"We're together all the time. It wont be an issue."

"And if we end up in a life-death situation? Would you like to get your emotions mixed in?" Sherlock challenged, leaving John to consider.

"You have yet to give an answer." John said, quickly changing the subject off of the questions at hand.

"My answer is yours to my previous question."

"So... yes?"

"Fine then."

With that, his friend rose from the couch and approached John so suddenly that the man had little time to react. Lips were suddenly pressed against his, not demanding or shy, just suddenly there. Before John could recognize the actions being committed, Sherlock parted from him and went into the kitchen. The doctor stood dumbfounded, tilting his head and raising his eyebrow.

"Do we have any coffee in here?" Sherlock called from his rummaging, John could hear things being discarded from the cabinets. It took him a moment to get his bearings before replying.

"Um, yes. I think so, in the right cabinet."

_What was that?_

"Um- Sherlock? Just what was that?" He called, confusion and anger and _oh god _he was so happy to have him back yet just wanted to wrap his fingers around his neck and strangle him.

"You got rid of my fingers!" Was Sherlock's reply. John winced.

"I think Mrs. Hudson was the one who did that- I haven't been here for a long time if you don't recall."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in reply, exiting the kitchen with a devious look.

He picked up the violin again and began playing- just out of the blue. It took John a moment or two to recall what the name of the instrumental was- oh yes, _Gioachino Rossini: The Barber of Seville Overture._ Easy enough to recognize, if you knew what to look for.

"Is this it then? We just go back to normal?" John asked, feeling shocked.

"Well, obviously. Unless you have something else in mind." Sherlock replied nonchalantly, and John noticed something catch in his voice. It was almost raspy.

"Sherlock? Have you been smoking?" The doctor demanded, narrowing his eyes.

"What gave you that idea?"

"Don't play coy with me, this is serious!" John disliked smoking to an extent, having met many people effected by it and finding the health of those who did decline at an increased rate with age.

"I was alone for six months, John. Bored, weary, and unknown to any and all eyes. Cig's were my lifeline." He paused. "John, you must understand. Old habits die hard- particularly those that are abusive to health. I'm here now, and that's all that matters."


End file.
